Archive of Our Own

If his plan worked, Eleanor would find her way back to Chidi. That was what Michael tried to focus on, what he kept telling himself as he watched Eleanor walk away. He had done all he could, and now she would go home and – with any luck – she would remember what he'd told her. She would find Chidi, and they would help each other, and then he would find some way to get the others to them, and all four humans would improve. That was how it had worked before, and he was sure it would work again if only he could bring them all together. They would become good people here on Earth, and they would get into the real Good Place, and – well, and then he might never see them again.

He couldn't think about that, not now. He couldn't think about Eleanor's blonde hair, her face turned away from him, her red dress in the low light. One step at a time. He held his breath, white-knuckled on the bar counter. Focus on the plan.

But if there was one thing Michael should've learned over the course of a few hundred years and roughly eight hundred reboots, it was that Eleanor Shellstrop had never been one to let his plans go off without a hitch. 

Instead, she stood with her hand on the door, holding it partially open. Steadying herself. Frozen in place somewhere between the relative familiarity and security of this bar – its dimmed lights and muted TVs, stilled in the late hour to a liminal stasis – and the uncertainty of the world outside as it waited for her return. 

For her to leave him again, Michael thought, and he chided himself for his own selfishness. 

He waited for a moment, watching her. Sirens sounded somewhere, muffled in the distance. Outside, a semi rattled past, the steady rush of tires on asphalt. Eleanor didn't move. And then she took a step back, let her hand fall, let the door swing shut again.

"Is everything alright?" Michael asked, knowing it wasn't.

"Yeah," Eleanor lied. "It's just... I forgot. I don't have a ride."

That wasn't the whole truth; he knew it wasn't, but there was nothing he could do. A laminated sheet tucked up against the counter listed the names and numbers of taxi services in large font, next to a garish cartoon warning not to drink and drive. He wasn't sure why that was on his side of the bar. "I can call a cab for you, if you need."

"What? No." She turned and strode towards him. Slid back up onto the bar stool, leaning her elbows on the counter. He raised his eyebrows at her. "Haven't you heard of Uber? Join the rest of us in 2017, man."

"I don't see the problem, then," he said. Half-hoping to prompt some more information, something else to work with. Knowing better than to expect a straight answer. "Why don't you just..." He waved his hand. "Uber your way home?"

Eleanor wrinkled her nose, almost apologetic. 

"Yeah, I kinda don't have great reviews. And my friend was supposed to come with me, but... eh, you know how it is." He wasn't sure he did, actually, but that seemed beside the point. She looked uncertain now, not meeting his eyes, holding her arm as she admitted, "I guess I didn't wanna go alone? Which is a stupid reason, anyway. Like, I don't wanna give you the wrong impression. I can take care of myself."

"I believe that," he said, as if there was any doubt. He was practically a scholar when it came to Eleanor's file at this point, his long hours spent poring over the most vulnerable and intimate details of her life in his futile quest to find some fatal weakness now bearing down like a weight in his chest. "You know, there's no shame in –"

"You could always come with me," she said, cutting him off. She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and he sighed. She was only joking, he knew, brushing off a tense situation before it had the chance to become something uncomfortable, something real. Of course she had no way of knowing how badly he wanted to go with her, to stay with her here. Every moment she lingered only made it worse, made the notion she would have to leave - that he would have to leave, that this was only temporary - all the more unbearable. He smiled, terse but indulgent.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Michael picked up a glass. Wiped it out. He wasn't sure whether he'd already done that or not, if the glass had even been used, but it seemed like the sort of thing a bartender should be doing and he was nothing if not committed to the role.

"Why? Sure, you seem kinda uptight, but you're not gonna go all American Psycho on me, are you?" Eleanor squinted at him, there in the low light. "I'm gonna answer that. You're not."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"No idea. You're just not. I'm pretty good at reading people. Anyway, if it came down to it, I bet I could take you – hey."  Michael's shoulder twitched, and he tried not to look indignant. Exactly why he should consider it an affront, he wasn't sure, but there was some part of him that still felt embarrassed at having failed to embody the terror, the threat that his former station required. Not that it mattered. Eleanor had never been afraid of him anyway. She didn't seem to notice, only sprawled out across the counter and reached towards him. Tugged at his shirt sleeve. "Can't you drive me?"

There was a thought. How much effort could it be to acquire a car? The mechanics of it were simple enough, but he'd never driven before – not a real car, on a real, actual, on-Earth road. No. He was already pushing his luck here, and he couldn't afford to take the chance.

"I don't know how," he decided.

"Dude, who doesn't know how to drive? How do you get anywhere?"

Trains. Portals. Other inter-dimensional conduits. Bypassing the limitations of physical matter altogether, if necessary.

"... I take the bus?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. They haven't let me back on the bus since I got caught faking a back injury so I could use the disability seating. Also, I might've been a little drunk, but, like. That one's not on me. It's not like I was driving the bus."

"Sounds like you're running low on options. How do you get anywhere?"

Eleanor snorted. "You've been looking at me all night, man. Answer that yourself."

Michael tilted his head, one corner of his lip quirked in the ghost of a smile, and Eleanor jabbed her finger at him over the brim of her glass. "I know what you're thinking, okay? In my defense, it's really crowded sometimes. And there's always those pervy dudes who stand way too close. It's like, this one time I was at a show 'cause my friend's new boyfriend was one of those SoundCloud 'musicians,' you know? And I went 'cause I thought it'd be funny. There were only like, ten people there and still some guy managed to cop a feel." She thought about it. Narrowed her eyes. "That's a lie. It was my friend's boyfriend. I slapped his ass while he was getting on stage."

Michael's face broke into a grin, and a sharp bark of laughter escaped him before he could stifle it.

"Really, dude?" There was laughter in Eleanor's voice now, clear and contagious, and it spurred him on.

"No! It's not funny. You should still try to do the right thing when you can, and – and..." He coughed into his fist, trying and failing to hide his expression. "It was wrong," he said, and he didn't sound convincing. She didn't look convinced.

"All that talk about moral whatever, but you're kind of a dirtbag, aren't you?"

"I'm –"

"I'm serious. Do you wanna come home with me?"

Neither one of them was laughing now. Michael's hand went to his tie and, realizing he wasn't wearing one, he ended up fiddling with the dish towel instead. He pulled it down off his shoulder and took it in both hands, polishing his solemn reflection in the already spotless bar counter. "You're drunk, Eleanor," he said, his voice quiet.

"I'm not that drunk," she said, as he began to find some other kind of busywork, anything that could serve as a distraction for the moment. He reached over to take her glass and she grabbed his wrist. Without meaning to, he met her eyes, and a flush of heat surged through his body. Now he felt drunk, drunk in the way that office parties had always ended for him, feeling out of place, awkward and seared.

He tried to pull away and she tightened her grip, taking his hand between both of hers and jostling it a little in what he assumed was meant to be a gesture of encouragement.

"Come on, dude. I can tell you're into me, so don't give me that. I've hooked up under way sketchier circumstances before."

That was true, he supposed. A few examples sprung to mind unbidden and it felt wrong, invasive to know these things about her. He couldn't think of her like that, not now, not with her hungry eyes on him and her skin against his skin. It felt harder to breathe.

With some effort, he exhaled. "Eleanor –”

"Wait." She relinquished her grip and leaned forward, both hands braced against the counter, studying him. Cautious, but too curious to break himself away, he leaned in too.

"What?"

"You keep saying my name, but I don't remember telling you."

Oh. Well, that was a whole new complication, as if this entire plan wasn't already spiraling so far out of his control. He ran through one scenario in his head and then another, and another, and the right words wouldn't come. His fingers twitched. There was still an impulse in him, he realized with a kind of sick shame, to just snap it away when things went wrong. To just take it back, reset, try again. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was about to say, but hoping it would be enough.

And then Eleanor shrugged. Waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Eh, whatever. Guess I was drunker than I thought." She perked up a bit. "See? That means I'm good now." She leaned back in, even closer than before. "... Am I supposed to know your name?"

He sighed. "It's Michael."

"Yeah, I'll be honest. I'm not gonna remember that." She poured one of the ice cubes from her otherwise empty glass into her mouth and crunched it. He wanted to object, to say that it wasn't exactly a difficult name to remember – a name, he realized with his heart in his throat, she had always remembered before, whatever the scenario.

"Didn't you need to head home?" He asked instead.

"Oh... right."

"I'll call a cab." Eleanor looked about to protest. He waved it off. "Don't worry, I'll pay for it. I'm closing up here anyway, and I have to... get back. "

The look she gave him was uncertain, gently skeptical but not quite accusing. "Okay, back up. Now you're coming with me?"

"It's not a big deal. I think I owe it to you, maybe. To make sure you get home safe." That was all. That had to be all. Just get her home safe and get back to the observation room, the quiet and the excruciating stillness, Janet with her eyes glued to Jason's ticker tape. Back to the sameness, the waiting. There was nothing he could do here, anyway. He'd had his chance, and somehow... well. It didn't matter now. This would mean nothing to her in the morning, and maybe he wouldn't have changed anything, but at least he wouldn't make it any worse.

Eleanor squinted, seemed to think on it for a moment. Then she looked down at her phone and scrolled through, the light illuminating her pensive scowl as it softened with her apparent decision. "A'ight," she said. "I think I like my chances with you better than Dan from Uber, anyway. Let's go."

The neon light from the bar sign reflected red off the pavement, red off Eleanor's hair. Red like her dress, Michael thought as the taxi pulled up and they shuffled inside, red like all the poor decisions she had made that brought him down here in the first place. Like all the wrong choices he'd made so far tonight.

But she was talking to him again, whatever strange moment that had just transpired between them now far from her mind, already forgotten. Jumping from one topic to the next; she was laughing, and he was laughing too, he supposed, or he was trying to. Wanted to.

"Okay, okay. Some backstory on this one. Like, for a super long time, I had this roommate..."

He knew the story she was telling, the way he knew all of her stories, but it didn't matter. He just wanted to hear her speak; any words would've been the same. So he only smiled softly as they drove on through emptying streets, listening to the cadence of her voice like an old favorite song, occasionally humming a note of interest, or else encouragement. 

Eleanor turned to him, her voice raised, her eyes alight. "God, you should've seen her face. I almost died."

And the light in her eyes flickered. His smile faltered, and she looked away. He caught a glimpse of the taxi driver's questioning stare in the rear-view mirror and felt suddenly uncomfortable in his human skin, almost guilty; he crossed his hands over his knee and stared stiffly out the window. He felt wrong in this stupid flannel shirt, another person's wardrobe like a skin of itself. For a moment, the cab fell silent.

"That was true, what I said... when I said it before. I almost died." Those words lingered, a warning sign in bold red letters, posted between them in the air. She took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. "Last year. I almost died, but I'm still here, and it's like... why? I thought things would be different, or that I would be different, somehow? And maybe I was for a while, kind of, but not different enough. So I guess this is it. It was stupid of me to think... to think maybe this was, like, a second chance somehow, like I survived for a reason. But nothing ever happens for a reason, does it?"

Michael was at a loss. That was it, wasn't it? All the flimsy excuses, the desperate chatter, the need to keep the silence at bay, by any means. To be anything but alone with her thoughts. He felt like an idiot. But Eleanor was the one with the words; the extent of his wisdom was only borrowed, repackaged and returned to her in the hope it could help her now as it had once helped him. Without that, he was as uncertain as she was. He pursed his lips. "No. I don't think it does. I used to be so sure I had all the answers, that I knew how all of this worked, but I'm beginning to realize something. Maybe it's better not to know. To be here, now, and not worry about what it amounts to. The answers aren't always... what you'd hope."

"Not asking for a reward and all, I get it."

"Not exactly. Not needing one. Because when you're really here, I mean really alive, being here is enough."

Eleanor glanced over to him, then leaned her elbow against the door, head tilted towards the window. "Yeah. Maybe."

For the rest of the ride, they sat in silence, watching the glare and the blur of late-night store signs and streetlights pass them by. When at last the cab pulled up to Eleanor's apartment complex, she half-staggered out almost before it came to a complete stop. She held back a moment, her hand resting on the open door as if to steady herself, then leaned down and stuck her head back into the cab. "Well, uh. You know... thanks."

Michael smiled, sad and thin-lipped. He wanted to say the right thing so badly, the thing that would make everything come together and set her back on track. That would give this some purpose. "You're welcome," he said instead.

"... Yeah, well. It's been real and all. See ya around."

"Goodnight, Eleanor. Happy birthday."

A strange look shone in her eyes for a fraction of a second, infinitesimal. Then she smirked, shot him a pair of finger guns, and stepped back, closing the door without another word. The finality of that action made him feel helpless, somehow, like a displaced wild animal trapped and at the mercy of its captors. About to be let loose somewhere strange and unfamiliar.

Michael folded his hands in his lap and stared down past them at the gray, carpeted interior, distant.

"Where to?"

"Hm?"

"Where are you headed now?"

"Oh." He looked up. Looked out the far window, where Eleanor had gone just moments ago, and there was an aching, hollow feeling in his chest. He knew what he had to do, or what he supposed was right, but it wasn't what he wanted.

"Nowhere. Here - here is fine. I want to stay here."

Michael fumbled with the handle and pulled himself out into the open night air, moving without thought, compelled by something deeper than his understanding. To his relief, he caught sight of Eleanor lingering by the gate at the other end of the lot, and she glanced back at him. Then she shrugged and turned away. He pushed the door shut and started towards her.

"Hey, pal." The cab driver cleared his throat and, when Michael just stood there staring at him, he tapped the meter and extended his hand out the window, the expression on his face caught somewhere between anger and confusion.

"Oh! Right." Michael dug around in his pockets and produced a stack of loose, crumpled bills. Eleanor was drifting away from him, and the seeming indifference she carried with her now struck something tender he had no name for. He shuffled through the stack once, not thinking properly, his eyes still on her, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. He looked back to the cab driver, a fleeting and impatient look, and then pressed about half of his funds into the man's outstretched hand. "Here. Is that enough? One second." Without waiting for a reply, he thumbed free another couple of bills and added them to the pile.

A distant thought told him maybe the cab driver had said something in return, but he wasn't paying attention. He wasn't even looking, and he didn't look back as the cab pulled out of the lot, the reflection from its headlights glinting off the side of the building and disappearing into the night.

With his long strides, it didn't take much effort for him to catch up to Eleanor. She looked tired now, in the dim light and the silence.

"I don't get it, man. What do you want from me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I just thought... God, this is so stupid." Eleanor covered her eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. "For a moment back there, it felt like maybe you got it, you know? Like you knew me or something dumb like that. And I know how that sounds, so forget it. We don't owe each other anything. I've never even seen you before."

His shoulders tensed. Technically, he supposed she was right, but that didn't make it hurt any less. And at the same time, he knew that he'd hurt her – by being here? Or maybe by not being here enough. "I thought you wanted me to stay. Did I do something wrong?"

She laughed without humor, detached and hollow. "That's what I was gonna ask. Like, come on. Really? I've seen some mixed signals before, but I can't even make you take advantage of me. And guys like you don't usually blue-ball someone like me." She paused. "No offense."

"Oh, Eleanor," he said, and he hated himself for the note of pity in his voice, hated himself because he knew she would hate him for it too. She didn't want pity, not from him or from anyone. It was wrong of him to still be here, to have thought this was a good idea in the first place. How had it had all gone so wrong again when it had been going so well before? If only he'd ever learned when to quit. "I had a good time tonight. And I haven't had someone to talk to like that in, well. Let's just say, it's been a while. If things were different –”

"Dude– dude, it's fine. Really. It doesn't mean anything. And I've been all over the place tonight, so like, don't take this as me caring, 'cause I don't. At all. If this isn't your thing, or you don't want me or whatever –”

"It's not like that. It's just that –” You're special. I owe you so much more than this. I miss you more right now than I did when we were apart. Isn't that strange? "You deserve better," he said, and he knew from the way her lip trembled that it was a mistake. She turned away from him and covered her face for a moment, then looked half over her shoulder with a shuddering breath, her back towards him, shielding herself.

"Jeez." Eleanor sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You really don't know me."

Michael reached out on instinct, then thought better of it. He winced, curled his fingers inward, his hand hovering in front of him, hesitant. Eleanor was avoiding his gaze again, and right now that felt merciful. Tears stung in the corners of his own traitorous eyes, and he shifted in place. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make this – I'm sorry. I should go."

"Yeah," she said. "You should."

And then she was kissing him, pulling him down by his shirt collar in a sharp, swift motion that knocked their teeth together and set his glasses askew. In that momentary lapse of rational thought, he grabbed her to steady himself and she felt safe, warm and familiar, like a favorite article of clothing that fit him just right. Like somewhere to come home to. Like a million other cliches that might've been good enough for frozen yogurt flavors but could never come close to describing this feeling, not when nothing and no one else had ever made him feel so much.

She felt like Eleanor Shellstrop, and there was nothing in the universe that could compare to that.

Eleanor twisted in his grasp and brought her arms up over his shoulders, her elbow bumping him at an angle he didn't even think should be possible.

"Oops," she muttered against his lips, and he tried to shake his head, but then her hands were in his hair and her mouth was open and soft under his and the discomfort of their position was the last thing on his mind as he tried to crane farther down, closer to her. Never close enough.

His kind had no real concept of time, not in the way it existed on Earth. Every moment was an eternity and every eternity was part of a whole, at once forever and no time at all. This was something different. This was clarity, absolute certainty, every moment before ghosting behind them and rippling inward until it all converged on them here and now, grasping at each other awkwardly, illuminated in the pale light glowing off an under-maintained in-ground swimming pool. They must have looked ridiculous. A low chuckle rose up in his throat and rumbled soft against her lips. 

With breathless laughter, they broke apart. For a moment, if only a fraction of time too small and unknowable for mortal observation, Michael could've sworn he saw something there in her eyes, a dangerous spark of shrewd knowing; was it foolish, he wondered, to believe in some intrinsic chemistry between them that could not be erased? Not as soulmates but as souls that had touched one another, altered each other's shape - a deeper recognition than memory in the way their bodies fit together. He certainly felt foolish for thinking it. 

Still, she took his hand, and in that moment of weakness, he let her lead him inside.

"Ugh. Stupid buttons," Eleanor muttered against his neck, her fingers fumbling at his shirt.

"Here, let me," he tried, and she batted his hand away.

"I got this, okay? I just gotta –” she trailed off, focusing her attention more intently on the task at hand. Getting frustrated, clearly, but he had the feeling it was a matter of pride at this point, and he wasn't about to argue with – a sharp tear, at least one of the buttons popping off and bouncing somewhere out of sight, lost in the clutter of her still-only-partially-unpacked bedroom. "Whoops. Sorry. ... I got it, though." She slipped her hands up under his ruined shirt.

"Don't worry," he said, and she wasn't listening. Her teeth grazed his collarbone. "I was starting to dislike that shirt anyway.”

Eleanor pushed the shirt back off his shoulders and he shrugged it off like a snake leaving behind an ill-fitting skin. For once, he felt relieved to be stripped like this, wanted to been seen without all these layers, this disguise between them. He wanted to be seen by her, to be known somewhere deeper than forgetting, to be something more than a convenient stranger, another in a long line of one-night stands. He wanted to just be Michael again, whatever that meant, with the complicated and wonderful past and uncertain present they shared laid bare before him. He was even less certain what he meant to her now, but with her lips pressing soft against his, skin to skin, he felt almost real.

Of course he had imagined this before, let his mind wander in the lonely, still silence to the memory of her lips on his, her body pressed flush against him. He wanted to be with her again, more than he'd ever wanted anything, but he had hoped the circumstances would be less desperate, less complicated. So many times in recent days he had run her ticker tape between his fingers, held onto it like a lifeline and thought of what he might say to her, or what he might've said to her if he could've done it all over just one more time. One more time, and he was sure he could get it right. 

He swore he could hear Chidi's voice in the back of his head now, asking him questions of ethics, of existentialism, of complicated human things that he still struggled to grasp. In that moment, with his fingers tangled in Eleanor's hair and half the clothing between them strewn about the floor of her apartment, there was nothing and no one he wanted to think about less than he wanted to think about Chidi – Chidi's certainty, and moreover the certainty of his place in Eleanor's existence; the stable, guiding principle he represented. Michael could never be that for her, he knew, and worse still he was here, keeping her from Chidi and so from her best shot at real change. A bitter thought struck him and he couldn't help but wonder if it was something subconscious, intentional, if some awful part of him would still rather she be damned as long as it kept her down in the darkness with him.

But what else could he do? He'd been an apprentice for over two hundred years and it had prepared him for nothing. His foray into the study of human ethics had only lasted a fraction of that time and everything about this situation was so unbearably convoluted, and he was so deep in it now that he wouldn't even know the right questions to ask, much less the answers. All he knew was that he needed Eleanor. That he couldn't leave her alone.

Eleanor pushed back against the bed, her hands linked behind Michael's neck as she brought him down on top of her; not for a moment did she stop kissing him, touching him, relentless and overwhelming and leaving his nerves on fire and his senses fogged.

Michael braced himself with one arm, his other hand cupping her face, tilting her chin up towards him. With mindless intensity, he pulled himself away from her lips without relinquishing contact, tracing his tongue and teeth against the exposed flesh of her throat.

A sharp sound escaped her, more surprise than pain, but it startled him, jolted him out of his daze. 

"Your glasses, dummy," she said, thumping him against the shoulder and he laughed, shaky and sheepish but relieved nonetheless. 

He made an apologetic sound and set his glasses aside. When he returned his attention to her, the desperate fervor he had felt was gone and in its place was a softer kind of passion, a warm fondness that brought time to a standstill and made everything else – everything that wasn't her, the sight of her blue eyes fixed on his bare face, her golden hair messy and splayed on the pillow – fade into irrelevance. He touched his lips to her collarbone, reverent, and she sighed, closing her eyes and relaxing beneath him as she basked in his affection, caressing her hands lazily over his skin wherever she could reach him.

Michael knew everything about Eleanor, the lines of her body, her birthmarks, stretchmarks and scars, her ill-advised tattoo. And yet she was different now, not overtly, but in little ways. Ways that would've been imperceptible to anyone else. Creases on her skin, the healed-over patch where she'd bruised her arm weeks ago, her tan lines, evidence of a body lived-in and changing. He swallowed hard, tracing his fingers against her flesh, committing this new information to memory, kissing every inch of her he could touch; running his tongue over her breasts, down her body, her stomach fluttering against him as her breath hitched, the twitch of her thighs as he slid down to rest his head between them.

Eleanor's legs lifted up and hooked over his shoulders; his hands shook against her hips and he held her tighter, sturdy, trying to steady himself as he went down on her. He was no less nervous touching her now than he had ever been before, every part of him burning under his flesh, hot enough to melt away and leave them both exposed to whatever terrible things lurked underneath. Like lava monsters shedding their skin suits.

He shifted his weight against her, slipping one hand around her lower back and the other between her legs, spreading her, running his tongue along her entrance, tentative. She let out a sharp, hitched breath and he looked up, froze, caught her at the moment she opened her eyes and her gaze locked with his. 

"Oh God, dude, keep going," she breathed, a ragged breath, reaching down with one hand to push a loose strand of hair from his forehead. Her other hand drifting down between her legs to keep friction where he'd left off. "You better not stop."

That was encouragement enough. With renewed confidence, Michael returned his hands to her hips, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs as she angled herself more comfortably underneath him. He ran his tongue against her, inside of her, until her sharp breathing gave way to pleasured moans and his jaw was soaked. His pants felt uncomfortably tight, strained, heat pooled low, a peculiar and paradoxical strength that made his limbs go weak. With one of his hands roaming to caress her side, he grazed his fingernails against her, seeking sensitive flesh that made her shudder under his touch.

He took her clit against his mouth and Eleanor twitched, let out a low moan; pride swelled up within him, rose up as a low and breathless chuckle that tapered off into a hum as he sucked, rolled his tongue against her, enthusiastic and entirely sloppy.

Her hands grabbed at his hair and pulled him towards her, holding him firmly in place. As if he could go anywhere. He was bound to her already, more than she could ever know, dizzy with the thought and the taste and the sound of her.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped, bucking up against him. The word made his stomach flip, harsh and brazen. He wondered if he'd ever get used to these moments, these grounding reminders of reality, of a world he couldn't censor or control. He knew he couldn't afford the time to find out, but he was getting tired of accepting things just because he knew them. 

Eleanor's grip on his hair tightened almost painfully as she came, and his vision went hazy in all nine dimensions.

Panting, Michael released Eleanor as she relinquished her hold on him; he let out a shuddering moan and closed his eyes, leaned his cheek against her inner thigh, soft and sweat-slicked. 

"Hey." She patted her hand against his other cheek and brought her legs down, a little bit shaky but still sitting up. He shifted over, lifted his head up, one arm braced heavy against the bed to keep himself upright. "C'mere," she said, and she took his face in both hands, guiding him up towards her, on top of her as she kissed him.

It was purposeful this time, slow and lazily open-mouthed and obscene in the depth of it, his face still wet with her. 

Eleanor shuffled back and fell against the pile of pillows and crumpled sheets.

Michael's hands fumbled to find another anchoring point and, failing that, he held onto her, let her pull him down, lost in the feeling of her body underneath him, her tongue in his mouth, her hands roaming idly down the nape of his neck, his shoulders, his chest. She fumbled with his belt, managed to undo his pants, and the relief of pressure was almost too much to bear. He felt flushed, and he ached for her, wanted her so badly and with such embarrassingly physical evidence to show for it that he was only surprised he'd lasted this long.

He wanted to be a part of her, buried indelibly deep in her body and in her memory. Etched on her bones.

She took him into her hand, fingers curled deftly, easily as she stroked his length, a languid motion in stark contrast with his pained, consuming need. He could feel his own pulse against her, hard and strained, thrusting into her grasp in quick, uneven movements, his forehead pressed against the bed above her, next to her, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. Her presence alone was overwhelming, but under her skilled touch, he felt too-eager, too aware of his own inexperience, powerless. Literally in the palm of her hand.

Michael gritted his teeth, his eyes shut tight, too far gone now to think of anything at all, only wanting this, wanting Eleanor and her touch and her breath grazing the fine hairs on his neck; it felt like a thousand years since she had touched him, since anyone touched him in even the most innocent gesture of comfort, and all of this was too much – much too soon.

Shuddering, he groaned and spilled into her hand; the stars in his vision faded, the world around him returning at once in a rush of shame.

Michael rolled over and fell back against the bed and it bounced under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily, feeling himself blush in spite of all his efforts to keep his mind blank as he struggled to regain some composure.

But Eleanor was shameless. Wiping her hand off on the sheets - Michael really hoped she changed them on a regular basis - she turned onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow to look down at him.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," she said, her tone gently mocking. "This has never happened before."

Michael blushed even more and coughed into his fist. He looked away for a moment, thankful for the cover of darkness and for Eleanor's limited eyesight. "Well. Not exactly."

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. She looked about to say something, and he was - without even realizing it - half-prepared for it to be something cruel, half-wondering in the back of his mind how he could get away with anything close to dignity. But then she laughed instead, and it was a genuine laugh; she kissed his neck, sloppy kisses that he melted against.

"You're not upset," he said. An observation, not a question.

Eleanor pulled back slightly and yawned, then flopped down with her arm around her pillow. "Nah, I'm kinda beat anyway. At least you had the decency to get me off before you..." She vaguely gestured in his direction.

"I get the idea, yes. Thank you." Michael clenched his jaw, indignant, but he couldn't be upset. Not really. Not with her settling against him, soft and certain and grounding. The angle was uncomfortable and he felt unclean, all the physical discomforts of human reality present in the afterglow. He found that he didn't care. He shifted against her, offering her a more comfortable place to rest against his chest and locking his arms around her with quiet, desperate need. They lay like that awhile, his calloused, slender fingers tracing delicate patterns against her bare shoulder blades, down to the small of her back. He closed his eyes. All the extraneous senses he possessed as an eternal being only threatened his presence in this moment; he wanted to see nothing, feel nothing else but the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.

“Are you gonna stay?” Her words came out as a whisper, and he felt her body tense in the cradle of his arms. It was a moment of weakness, and he wondered if he should just let her have it, let it go. Go on pretending he'd never seen her vulnerable, that she'd never seen him so wanting. Let her wonder, as he wondered, if this moment was something close to real, or if they would part as strangers again, knowing she would be no different for it.

It wasn't him that she wanted. It was just the possibility she hadn't yet had the chance or rational sense to rule out for good. Perhaps she wondered the same thing every time, he thought, even if she would never say it. Was this how it was supposed to feel? Did she want him to stay, dare to hope for things she'd never had, even as she deliberately closed and locked every door anyone had ever tried to open? 

The thought made his regrettably human heart ache in far, intangible places he never knew existed. Eleanor must have noticed some reaction in him, too, something he couldn't quite hide. She spoke again and, this time, Michael knew he was supposed to hear her.

“Ugh. Sorry. I don't know why I said that.” Eleanor laughed uncomfortably, and the warmth of her breath against his neck made his stomach twinge. “Too much – not enough booze,” she decided. She sounded very certain of that part, tapping her finger against his chest to punctuate her declaration. In spite of himself, Michael smiled.

And then he felt her begin to untangle herself from the mess of limbs and sheets he had been comfortably taking for granted. She was growing distant, almost apologetic – he could see that he was losing her again, and it sent a sharp rush of panic through him. He thought of his office, and he pictured the last bit of sand falling through his hourglass as the light shone through. He thought of the steam and the sound of a train as it pulls away from the last stop and rolls on into infinity. And he knew that he needed this, needed her desperately. 

Eleanor balanced herself on her elbow and shifted out of his grasp, casually shrugging his arms away. 

“Wow, shit. I'm really not drunk enough for – ”

She gasped as Michael pulled her back to him. It was a gamble, he knew, and it was just as likely that his own impulsiveness would only drive her further away, to somewhere he couldn't reach her. But he could not, would not let her go. Not again.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he lied. He suspected she knew everything he couldn't say – suspected that, in any reality, she would strip away his pretenses and find him exposed – but she seemed satisfied nonetheless. Eleanor's body relaxed into his, and he could breathe again.

It wasn't him that she wanted. He had to remember that. But for tonight, he could pretend.

“Eleanor –”

“No, shh,” she muttered. She put her finger to his lips this time, already half-asleep and draped across him.

Michael brushed her hair behind her ear and, one hand still resting soft against her cheek, placed a thin-lipped, smiling kiss against her forehead. He settled against her, absently threading his fingers through her hair as he listened to her breath and her heartbeat pressed up against him in the dark. The ceiling fan in Eleanor's apartment made a clunking sound every other time it spun around, just a little off balance. 

Beings like him didn't need sleep in the same way humans did, or that's what he had often insisted. Truthfully, in the afterlife, none of them had needed sleep in any physical sense - it was just a way of processing, a familiar sense of structure. 

Either way, Michael had never liked to sleep; he became single-minded when he had a project, and he let it consume him, refused to waste time even when he had an unlimited supply of it. He didn't want to sleep now, but not for the same reasons. There was no restlessness in him. With Eleanor fast asleep in his arms, he felt perfectly content; he wanted to live in this moment forever, to savor it, to keep her close to him. He had to memorize this feeling, every detail.

His eyelids felt heavy. Cursing the still-uncertain limitations of his human body, he sighed. It was a strange feeling, as if he wasn't quite in control of himself, like water was rising up around him and his skeleton had turned to stone.

Eleanor shifted against him in her sleep, and Michael wrapped his arms around her like she was the only thing that could keep him afloat.

Michael woke with a start to the sound of Eleanor's snoring. She was lying next to him, close enough to touch but no longer touching; she had disentangled herself from him in the night. Confusion set in, and then a rising panic in his stomach. In the light of day it seemed clear to see all the ways he had went wrong, the horrible reality of his failure. And he had been here for so long already, it was only a matter of time before the Judge found out what he'd done - and what would she say? It didn't matter. Either way, he was sure it was all over now.

Rising from the bed, all anxious energy, he rubbed his eyes and put on his glasses. He paced the length of the room a few times, and it did nothing to settle his nerves. Swallowing hard, trying to push the feeling down, he let his gaze rest on Eleanor.

She was still sleeping, laid out on her back with her arms bunching up the bedspread around her, her hair tangled and wild. Snoring shamelessly. The sheets were draped unevenly about her body and the mid-morning sun beating against the shades displayed her there in filtered light, peacefully naked and comfortably sprawled, taking up an implausible amount of space for her physical size.

Michael had no innate concept of beauty. His existence didn't demand it, required little more than cliches – the bright and sinister ideals he'd twisted into the shape of his neighborhood were all new and exciting to him. Whatever appreciation he had since found for the softer details of human existence, it was all his own, a sort of rebellion against the sharp formality he was accustomed to back at the Bureau of Human Affairs. 

But for all his innovation, with the powers of eternity at his fingertips, he was certain he could never have created anything so beautiful as her.

Michael shook his head. As much as he wanted to believe this was something special, something real, there was another voice in the back of his mind reminding him of his purpose here. Eleanor didn't really expect him to stay, and to think otherwise was only his own selfish nature speaking. Still, it didn't seem right to just leave, not now. Maybe, against all odds, things would go right. Maybe she would remember what he'd said and find her way to Chidi. But it didn't seem likely.

Then again, what else could he do? Leave her a note, maybe, a message of some kind - but what would get the point across? What would she listen to; what wouldn't she sneer at and dismiss outright? He considered his options as he cleaned himself up, stared himself down in Eleanor's bathroom mirror. He thought about it as he tidied up the dishes strewn around her apartment and loaded them into the dishwasher, and as he searched her barren cupboards for a clean glass. He kept thinking about it as he decided it was futile and as filled a coffee mug with water instead.

He placed the mug on her nightstand, still at a loss, and sat on the edge of the bed. Eleanor had turned over in her sleep and her snoring had softened. Without thinking, Michael reached over to caress her cheek, and she stirred under his touch; she opened her eyes.

For a moment, she just looked at him, brought him into focus in her bleary, sleep-addled view. 

"You're still here," she said, more to herself than to him. She looked surprised, and some part of him was pleased to know he could still surprise her.

"Where else would I be?" Michael knew where he should be, and what he supposed he should've been doing, but lying to himself hadn't done any good. There was only one place in the universe that he'd ever belonged, and it was wherever Eleanor was.

In response, Eleanor sat up and groaned, holding her head.

"Here," he said, plucking the mug from her nightstand and offering it to her. "It's water. I couldn't find a clean glass, so..."

"You don't need to babysit me, dude. I've had plenty of hangovers before." Eleanor's voice was sharp, but the look on her face was almost guilty as she took the mug from him. They sat in silence as she sipped at it slowly. After a moment, she cleared her throat. "But, uh... thanks."

Michael smiled and looked away.

"Ugh. What time is it, anyway?"

"You unplugged the clock in here for a toaster, and the one in the kitchen is blinking 3:55 AM. So I don't know. The sun is up."

"Yeah, I can see that." Eleanor passed the mug back to him and squinted; she dug around by the side of the bed to retrieve her phone from where she had unceremoniously scattered her belongings on the floor the night before.

She combed her hair out of her face with her fingers and then turned her attention to the screen of her phone. Michael sat patiently, comfortable enough to watch her grimace and grumble as she scrolled through her notifications.

"Anything important?"

"Not really. My friend's been trying to get ahold of me, and I'm not one hundred percent sure, but it looks like maybe I don't have a job anymore? So that's cool. Whatever, I'll deal with it later –" Eleanor moved to put her phone aside, and she froze. Something else on the floor caught her eye. "Ah, shit. And I ruined your shirt."

Michael laughed, far louder than he intended to.

"Ugh. Shut up, my head hurts."

"Sorry," he said, chuckling low in his throat to keep the sound down. "But it's not a big deal. It's not my usual style, and it... didn't really suit me."

"Really? I thought it was kinda hot." Michael was thankful Eleanor was distracted and she didn't see his reaction. "Well, whatever. I can't promise you'll like any of it better, but you can dig around in those boxes if you want. I have a ton of stuff my exes just like, left here. I was on this whole self-improvement thing last year and I thought I'd get it all sorted and donate it or something, but..." She shrugged.

"Say no more," Michael said, with a dismissive wave.

Eleanor gave him a curious smile, eyebrows raised, and then she left him alone in her bedroom.

While Eleanor showered, Michael rummaged about in one of the boxes she'd directed him to. She wasn't kidding; the trophy objects she'd collected from exes who had "just left" their stuff at her place and never got it back when she inevitably ghosted them were enough to fill a fair-sized moving box just on their own. A lot of it was stray articles of clothing, but there were other things – things that Eleanor couldn't possibly have had any use for beyond the satisfaction of sheer spite. A ring of keys, a stuffed horse, a dog collar with tags, a parcel of postcards from various national parks that were addressed to a name Michael didn't recognize... he wondered if she had intended to donate those, too, or if some part of her was holding onto them until it didn't feel so impossible to make amends.

He pulled out a few shirts and laid them flat at the foot of Eleanor's bed. They were all hideous, and he could tell right away that none of them would fit him properly – and that most of them wouldn't fit him at all. Sighing, he resigned himself to his fate and pulled on a short-sleeved Hawaiian button-up. It was objectively tacky, and a little too short for him while still too broad in the shoulders. He didn't even want to know how it looked on him.

"Hey, Michael?"

If his heart could've stopped, it would have. He swiveled in place, hands still trying to adjust the terrible fit of the terrible shirt, upper body craned awkwardly around to look back at Eleanor where she stood, now fully dressed and leaning against the door frame. But the look on her face told him all he needed to know, and he looked away again – just slightly – and said nothing. A small gesture of humility. Even when she was nowhere in sight, he never stopped seeing her.

"... That's your name, right?" She appended, her voice strained. "Sorry – I'm not good with –”

Her words trailed off, but it was still a good save, or good enough. 

"Yeah," he said. "You got it."

"Cool. I was wondering, you know... if you don't have plans, if maybe you wanted to get coffee? And by that I mean you get me coffee, 'cause I've got bills coming out of my ass, and, well. Not sure if I have a job anymore. And if I have to drink this instant stuff again, I think I'm going to go crazy."

A feeling in his chest rose up and spun around like a dog-spider presented with a bucketful of gristle. He fought to keep himself down, to keep the smile from his face. "I'd love to." 

Eleanor squinted at him. "Yeah?" 

Michael nodded, still somewhat too eager and barely restrained.

She paused for a moment, sizing him up, and then she nodded too. "Coming on a little strong, but alright. Yeah, great – there's this place nearby I used to go to all the time. It's kind of crappy, but the iced lattes from there got me through some rough mornings."

Michael quirked his head to the side. "Is this one? A rough morning."

Eleanor snorted in return, but it was a fond sound. A familiar sound. It warmed him to the core, more than bright morning sunshine ever could. "Ask me again in a few hours, okay, bud?"

The shirt he wore still felt wrong, temporary. Borrowed cloth on borrowed skin. But when she placed her hand on his shoulder, he felt a little more like himself. Eventually, this would have to end; he had already been here too long, or perhaps it had been no time at all. There was no real way to be sure. But in this moment, now, she was here and real and breathing, so completely alive that it made him feel breathless and dizzy. He wanted to laugh out loud; he wanted to spin her around and kiss her until they both needed to break apart for air, human and necessary and so much a part of this world.

"Ugh, why is it so bright?" Eleanor stepped out into the mid-morning sun, shielding her face with one hand while she fumbled for her sunglasses.

In the harsh desert daylight of an Arizonan October, it was plain to see the cracks in the bright yellow paint of Eleanor's apartment complex. The sun glinted off the neglected pool and litter lined the fence; the air smelled faintly of exhaust off the main road, heat generated by the rush of cars passing by. Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking and another joined in, everything together in the mad, uncalculated, cacophonous chaos of human and animal existence. Time, too, rushed on past them, and Michael couldn't see where it was bound.

Instead, Michael turned his attention to Eleanor. Eleanor, like an anchor in this world in motion, squinting defiantly in her sunglasses and her denim jacket. She seemed a part of the low desert landscape, rough and lean, but the sunlight shone softer where it filtered through her golden hair. 

They were going to get coffee, he thought. There was something thrilling in the mediocrity of that. He didn't know what would happen after, or how he would talk his way out of this one once the Judge found out, but all of that felt secondary. For now, they were going to get coffee. That was enough. 

Michael smiled and, closing the door behind him, he stepped out to join Eleanor in the light.